Sherlock has a journal?
by Sherlocked BBC
Summary: Sherlock has been keeping a secret journal, "a book of success", but its really full of the feelings he has for Molly, and one day it disappears. Sherlock goes insane trying to find it, while John is just finding out he kept a journal, and is immediately suspicious. Who finds it first? What is inside? Read to find out! A Sherlock/Molly
1. Chapter 1

During an afternoon in the flat, John was typing away on his laptop. It had been a slow couple of days, with not much recent activity, so John thought he'd catch up with his writing. Eyes glued to the screen, not paying much attention to his surroundings, just concluding his latest piece. He didn't use to take this much time on one of his blogs, but after making Sherlock an internet phenomenon, he had to make each new case sound like more than just a rough draft of the latest events going on in his life.

After completing his final sentence, and feeling accomplished yet again, he was about to take a big sigh of relief, but quickly stopped himself. Something wasn't right. He had actually written a whole story with no interruptions or unintentional rude comments from Sherlock. No violin playing? No ring of Sherlock's phone?

John closed his laptop slightly and sat upright in his chair. While looking over his shoulder, he saw that Sherlock was not in the living room with him, like he had been earlier when he sat down by the window with a book. _God, this man could be silent._ John stood quickly, placing his laptop on the desk, and walked to the kitchen. It stood empty, with an abandoned microscope.

_Where is he?_ John realized he must have gotten so sucked into his work he just forgot about Sherlock, and cherished the rare silence that only occurred when Sherlock went to his "mind palace".

"Sherlock?" John shouted, while walking down the hallway. He doesn't necessarily need Sherlock for anything, but with no recent news from detective inspector Lestrade, what could he possibly be doing?

"Uh...I'm Busy!" Sherlock replied loudly through his closed bedroom door, with an unfamilliar tone of voice. He sounded worried, and upset.

John walked up to the door and grabbed the handle. Giving it a soft turn, he only pushed it open a crack, just enough to see inside. The handle felt moist with sweat, as if Sherlock's palms were sweating. _Was he nervous?_

Sherlock was looking frantically through the room, pushing papers off his desk, tearing the covers off his bed. He was looking for something, but what?

"Looking for anything?" John said, as he opened the door for his head to pop in.

Sherlock ignored John, and started lifting the mattress of his bed.

"Did the great Sherlock Homes actually misplace one of his _own_ possessions?" John said teasing.

Sherlock paused for just a moment, gave John a smirk and threw a pillow across the room to hit John's face. Then immediately went back to his search.

"That's great, real mature." John said in annoyance.

"There is no time for maturity, John. I need to find it." Sherlock replied.

"I can help you look for, well, whatever it is you're looking for," John began, "If you could just tell me wha-"

"That won't be necessary, thank you." Sherlock said, cutting John off.

"Alright then, I'll…let you be." John said, and finally closed the door.

_What is the deal with him? _John wondered. This was most definitely abnormal. Sherlock, of course, _was_ abnormal. John questioned if Sherlock was even human at times, but this was not the kind of behavior to expect when there wasn't even a case they were currently working on.

* * *

Finally left alone, Sherlock felt a bit of relief, but not much.

"What if someone else finds it," he began speaking to himself, getting angrier by the minute, "How could I be so stupid, leaving it somewhere carelessly!"

He plopped down onto his bare mattress, placed his hands flat together, and rested his fingertips on his lips, the way he always did when he needed to think.

_How could I have lost it? How could I lose something so important to me? I'll just have to start all over. No, no! I can't re write all the thoughts, not exactly how they were! Not all the dreams…certainly not all the dreams…_

Then, realizing what he had to do, set aside his frustration and slowly looked around his room. Papers all over the floor, the notes to his experiments and cases mixed together in a pile that would take hours to resort. The lamp lay broken, the bed sheets balled up in the corner, and it still hasn't turned up. Dresser drawers…where were the dresser drawers…

He gave up just for the moment, and placed his hands on his chest. He needed to calm down, clear his mind, and take a deep breathe.

_Wait, what do I feel with my elbow?_

One of his elbows had been resting on the right pocket of his robe, a pocket he had not bothered to check.

_Could it be? _He thought, with an excited grin, laughing at his foolishness; at how he could ever get so worked up.

Sherlock reached deep into his pocket to grab the small, square book, but his hopes had arisen for nothing. His smile was gone immediately. The square object he had deeply hoped to be there, turned out to be his wallet.

"Bloody wallet!" Sherlock screamed, throwing it across the room. It crashed against the wall with a thud, making loose change and business cards fly about.

_So much for setting aside my frustration. _He thought, with a smirk. He now had to go to his last resort. He had to confront John.


	2. Chapter 2

"John?" Sherlock called, poking his head out into the hall.

"What is it now? Calling me over to pelt me with pillows again?" John said from the living room, clearly not wanting to deal with the 'High functioning sociopath' at the moment.

"I need you to stop by the shops and pick me up a journal. I seemed to have misplaced mine." Sherlock said flatly.

"A journal?" John said, interested. "Is that what you've been looking for this whole time?"

"Yes, very important," Sherlock began, rolling his eyes, "You must buy me a new one at once before I start to forget the entries."

_A journal…Sherlock keeps a journal? _John thought. This was new. John got up immediately and walked to Sherlock's bedroom door to discuss of the journal he had never heard of before.

"And what exactly did you write in this journal?" John questioned with a grin, clearly amused by the idea of _Sherlock_ writing about thoughts he kept personal.

Sherlock knew the question would come up, and had a lie (he put a great deal of thought into) prepared for the occasion.

"Results to my experiments, conclusions to our cases, a book of success, you could call it." Sherlock said, trying to sound as if it were nothing.

John stood there for a moment with his arms crossed, inspecting Sherlock's face for a sign of embarrassment. Didn't this man feel anything?

"You're lying." John said

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock replied, with a look that said, 'What in god's name is wrong with you?'

"No, you're lying. There's bloody more in that book than what you're telling me! If there wasn't, you wouldn't have gone to hell and back looking for it." John said, getting a little too carried away.

"And just what do you think I kept in this journal?" Sherlock asked, now opening the door to fully face John.

John looked passed Sherlock, gazed around the disaster, and looked back at his face, staring straight into his eyes. He began to speak slowly, with a serious tone. "I think you have feeling, Sherlock. Feelings you keep deep and personal. Things you could never bring yourself to say out loud."

Both men stared unmoving at each other for a long moment with dead serious expressions, then bursted out laughing at John's ridiculous accusation.

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes again, still giggling and shaking his head. He leaned up against the doorway, ready to hear a ridiculous earful from John, about _feelings_. Ugh. "It's perfectly normal" Sherlock expected to hear, "Hatred, jealousy, sympathy, depression.", but John surprised him.

"I think you _fancy_ a girl." John said, and smiled from ear to ear when Sherlock began to blush.

He had to take a brief second to compose his thoughts, before images of _her_ rushed through his mind. The scent of her hair as she would swiftly pass by, how clever she looks in that long white lab coat, everything about her is just...perfect. _No, back to reality._ He wouldn't want to stutter in front of John.

"Some things are best left to the imagination." Sherlock said with a small smile. He could not help the light shade of pink his face was turning, because John was right. John was absolutely right.

**More chapters to come!**


	3. Chapter 3

"Book of success my ass." John said to himself at the checkout counter of the grocery store. He knew Sherlock was lying. They haven't had a case in 2 days. 2 days! Something else was occupying Sherlock's mind, and it had to be what he was writing in that journal.

"John!" said the happy tone of a woman, standing directly behind him in line.

"Molly!" John said with a smile. He hadn't seen her in a while. For the last couple of weeks Sherlock had always sent John out of the morgue to attend to some godforsaken errand whenever Molly's hands were full.

"How are you?" John asked, realizing he had been lost in his thoughts for a moment.

"Good, just picking up some groceries. How are you?"

"Good, good, doing the same." John said, not quite sure how to keep up the conversation.

Molly glanced at a journal John was holding along with his other items.

"I thought you preferred typing." Molly said, wondering why John was buying a journal, when he had a successful blog, and obviously a working laptop.

"Oh, this?" John asked, gesturing to the notebook in his hand, "This is for Sherlock. Apparently he used to write in a journal." John said, laughing a little.

"Used to?" Molly said, now very intrigued at the new topic.

"Yeah, he seemed to have lost it. Sent me here to buy him a new one, saying he had to write the entries in before he forgot them." John said, still amused.

"Forget the entries? Don't you think anything Sherlock bothers to write down would be worth saving in his memory? He doesn't forget things." Molly said, now with a concerned look.

John paused for a moment. He hadn't thought of this.

"Well he must have been writing about something he's not quite familiar with. I'm almost certain he feels something for-" John stopped before he said any more, realizing who he was talking to.

The only woman Sherlock ever talked to, tolerated, and of course, worked with, was Molly. Molly. John's jaw dropped at this realization.

"Something for…?" Molly asked, with a great deal of excitement she tried to contain.

She knew what John was going to say. Feels something for a girl, a woman, someone. But she couldn't help but hope that girl was her.

"I…uh…got to go Molly." He said after paying for his items.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked, a little confused with how John was acting.

"Yeah, yeah. I just, need to get back home soon." John said as he walked out the door, almost dropping one of his bags.  
-

* * *

While John was out buying him a new journal, Sherlock got a little…carried away refreshing  
his mind with all of the things he wrote about Molly.

He went into the living room to play his violin. Playing and playing, with no one listening.

"This is hopeless." He said to himself, gently placing his violin on the  
ground. He needed to remember. So he laid down on the couch, stared at the  
ceiling, and thought back to when he wrote his first entry.

_It only started as a simple thought. _He  
remembered as he smiled.

If he ever took his attention from his microscope for just a second to glance  
at her, she was sometimes staring at his hair. She obviously thought he didn't  
notice, but he did. He always did, and it made this one uncontrollable thought  
go through his head. _I wish she would run her fingers through my hair. _

It always baffled him when it entered his mind. _What am I doing? No distractions. Back to work. _But he never forgot it.

He had to do something with this thought. Release it. Get it out, so it  
didn't always pull him away from his train of thought. So, knowing he could  
not tell a soul, wrote it down in a blank journal.

_I wish she would run her fingers through  
my hair._

Staring at it, he saw it looked so alone, so meaningless. There was so much  
more. There were things he liked about Molly, loved about  
Molly, and admired about Molly. So he continued writing.

While replaying this memory, he had not realized he was running his fingers through  
his hair mumbling Molly's name. Not even when John walked in.

**The next chapter is coming soon! No worries :)**


	4. Chapter 4

With an arm full of bags, John managed to get inside the flat without making too much noise. He knew Sherlock would just tell him to shut up if he made any racket, so he chose to enter quietly.

But as he walked in, he saw the strangest sight. Sherlock was lying on the couch, running his hands through his curls, and saying Molly's name.

_What is he doing? _John thought, clearly confused, but not saying a word. He wanted to stand there for just a moment longer before he spoke, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, but the paper bags were slipping from his grip.

"Uh…Sherlock?" John said, holding back a great deal of laughter.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and his mouth snapped closed, with his hand on his head in mid stroke. He looked at John, then at his arms.

"John." Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

_Oh my god, this is just too funny _John thought to himself.

"What were you just doing?" John said with a rather large grin.

"I was…my head's just...itchy. Yes! Terribly itchy." Sherlock said as he stood, and started to franticly scratch his head.

"And you think of Molly whenever your head is itchy? Is that it?" John teased, now giggling at Sherlock's new red skin tone.

"I may have lice John! Lice!" Sherlock shouted, clearly exaggerating.

"Yes, yes, lice. _That_ must be it." John said with his back turned walking toward the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped in the kitchen and stared at one of the bags sitting on the counter, waiting for John to hand him the book. John, however, was preoccupied putting away the groceries.

"Did you get the book?" Sherlock said slowly through gritted teeth, still embarrassed getting caught in the act. He sounded angrier than he meant to, but the constant tapping of his foot showed it was just his impatience.

"_Of course_ I got the bloody book!" John exclaimed turning around, immediately regretting his outburst. "I-I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know this is…new to-"

"It's fine, John." Sherlock said furrowing his eyebrows, getting more irritated as the seconds passed. "Just hand me the book."

John swiftly picked the book up out of the grocery store bag and gently placed it in his awaiting hand.

"Here." John mumbled, trying to sound distracted by the newspaper he was about to read. He couldn't help but take a few glances Sherlock's way as he crossed his path heading toward the living room to his favorite chair.

Sherlock starred at the new, clean, blank pages that lay before him, with a look of confusion.

"Why is it so big?" Sherlock asked, studying the stiff cardboard cover, flipping the book through his fingers, and crossing into the living room.

"Now he wants a specific size." John remarked under his breath, drawn to the crossword.

"I guess it will have to do." Sherlock sighed and collapsed into his chair, crossing his legs. He might as well get to it then, so he pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and opened to the first page. His pen placed ever so gently, his hand almost dancing as it wrote, "The first day I laid eyes upon M"-

"Oh, I ran into Molly today" John spoke with cheerful delight, very well aware of who Sherlock was thinking about at the moment.

"Did you, now?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to look up.

"Yeah, at the market. We had a good chat." John smiled at the thought of _Molly _and_ Sherlock. _

"Mm." Sherlock grunted, trying to show no interest.

John saw this as a sign to shut up, so he went back to his crossword.

This left Sherlock in a sweet state of wonderful memories. He has to go back, way back, when he first met Molly in the Morgue. Of course there was a purpose as to why he had started visiting the Morgue, to use the equipment. He-

"Aren't you going to…write in your journal?" John asked, after what seemed like 20 seconds.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then shook his head to clear his mind, and focused on his question.

"Write? In? Oh-yes, yes. Of course." Sherlock said pulling his phone out to check the time. It had been 20 minutes…and he hadn't written a thing.

"Having a bit of trouble?" John said looking above his paper.

"This just isn't the right time." Sherlock said.

"The right time? When is the right time, exactly?" John said, placing the paper down on his lap.

"When I…feel a ping." Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't know why he was doing _that, _it was a perfectly comfortable chair.

"A what?" John smiled, leaning forward in his seat.

"A ping." Sherlock said, with that "we both know what's going on" look.

John sat there for a moment, making sure he heard that right. _A ping._

"Okay, I'm lost." John said rubbing his eyes with one hand, laying back in his chair again.

"Well that's what I call it, I'm not sure what it is. My thoughts go elsewhere and my stomach feels unusual." Sherlock explained.

"Oohh. A _ping_. You mean a feeling." John understood, pointing his finger at this so called great detective.

"…You could call it that." Sherlock said quietly, getting back to his thoughts.

John let him be. Sooner or later he would feel a _ping _and start writing. Maybe after writing out his new feelings he wouldn't be so grouchy.

* * *

**So sorry I took so long for this chapter. Currently stuck with too many school projects at once. I promise I won't do that to you again. A new chapter is coming soon.**


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